


Need Somebody (When You Come To Die)

by lightningwaltz



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:25:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“At night I sleep if I can. And in the morning I wake up and do everything again.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need Somebody (When You Come To Die)

**Author's Note:**

> All I have to say is that these two break my heart. Always have.

Over time, a battlefield becomes a god. The land just outside Ilium has long since transformed into obscenely holy place, deified by blood, shit, vomit, and bones. It’s an all-encompassing shrine to war, war, war. Flies buzz about Hector’s ears as he makes a requisite return to the city, and he wonders why they have abandoned newly made corpses in order to pester _him_. Perhaps they sense the empty space between his ribs. The one that makes him feel like a ghost sneaking back into his own home.

Of the men chosen to return, he hears one his solider murmuring to a companion. It’s a private conversation, but the wind carries conversation as easily as it carries the stench of corpses. 

“Going to see my wife tonight.” 

“Oh, is that so?” Amusement suffuses the man’s response, which pleases Hector. He recalls that just a day or two ago this same soldier had been distraught over the loss of a brother. If one can hint at laughter- if one can even pretend to it- then it follows that their spirits haven’t been completely tramped into the dust. 

“I’m not excited, if you want to hear the truth. Whenever I come home she pretends to be happy, but she just gives me this look.” A shudder. “I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s like her every smile is false. What have the women got to worry about it if we’re still alive?” 

What indeed? Here’s something the women have to fear; Hector, Breaker of Horses, passing through the colonnades and bringing them word of their brother’s death. Their husband’s death. Their son’s death. 

“Was it quick?” It’s something the mothers always ask. _Did he suffer?_

“We’ve gave him a proper burial,” Hector will reply. 

When he goes to the temple, when he offers up a yearling heifer to their gods, he gives thanks that he was born a man. He can pick up a spear, slam it into man’s throat, and let the earth drink its fill of his enemy’s blood. A battlefield has its period of interminable tedium, but he’ll never have to wait behind the walls of Ilium. If he dies, he’ll die first, and no one will enslave him. Not so for the women.

When Hector finds his way to his room, when he takes in the sight of his Andromache, he better understands that lowly soldier’s trepidation about his own wife.

When they were younger Andromache had seemed comprised of gentleness, comfort, and curves (how nice it had been to hold her!) But even then her eyes had been unexpectedly sharp, piercing, heralding her surprising grasp on political and social realities. Now, thanks to the deleterious effect of fear, his wife has become pared down. Her eyes are even more distinct, appearing like two dark beacons that have long since marked his death. His wife is not old, yet here she is; a young woman with the war in her eyes. Death in a lover’s body. 

Hector, however, is not frightened. Nor is he angry. His wife has not been on the battlefield, but some empathic part of her can understand, can guess. She has weights on her heart, too, and they bear the names of her dead mother, father, and brothers. 

“You’re alive,” she whispers, and Hector kisses her fingers. He’s long since washed the sacrificial blood from his hands. 

*

That evening, Hector and Andromache lay side-by-side in bed and he knows she’s staring at the wall. She’s as motionless as a stone, as though all the life has left her. He stacks it up against the accounts he hears about her. That she and Hecuba discuss ways to make up for the lack of trade. (Their city might be starved before they are outfought.) That Andromache is kind to his sisters. 

Does she do anything for herself? Does she wish they had a child, yet? Does _he_? 

“Tell me about your days, wife.” 

She shifts, to lie on her back. “Why are you asking? Do you wish to change occupations?” 

Hector feels his face twist into a smile. “What would you do as a commander?” 

“You know how I feel about the part of the wall near the fig tree.” 

He rests his hand on her shoulder, brushing the skin below the cloth. She’s smooth. No callous, bruises, or infected wounds. “I do. We’re holding that area well.” 

“Good.” He can see her worrying at her lip. “What do I do? I talk to your sisters, I weave, I see to our household. I track the battles, and fret over the wounded.” 

“And at night?” 

“I’m faithful!” She bolts upright, and he pushes her back. 

“I know, I hear no ill reports of your behavior. I just... wonder.” 

She makes a sound- possibly a sigh, probably a laugh- and drapes her arm over his torso. Goes very still again. 

_And on and on until this all ends._ He feels a pang of remorse. How terrible for her to marry into such an esteemed family, and then immediately lose her husband to a war. Hector thinks of her family again, thinks of her seven brothers, and how they were cut down in one day. Thinks of that awful moment a year or two ago when Andromache had learned of their deaths, and how her sobs had been like a knife to the gut. He thought for sure she’d vanish under a veil of grief. Instead the days kept passing, and she kept waking, and she kept going to her duties. He wonders what it would take to break her, and he hopes he’s never alive to see. 

“The nights are lonely,” Andromache ventures. “But at least I have you right now.”

*

In the early morning light, Hector watches his wife dress. With brisk, purposeful moments she dons each article of clothing and he thinks of his soldiers preparing for battle. 

She runs her fingers through her curls, and gives him a tentative smile the likes of which he hasn’t seen since before they were married. 

“I had a dream… Well, let’s just say I’m pretty sure you’re leaving me with a son this time.” She leans over to kiss him, and he wonders if it will prove to be true. If two people who are half-dead can create life together. 

"Zeus grant that it may be true."


End file.
